Odd Girl (3 page)

Mark was regarding her too, with a firm, quiet gaze. "How are you, trooper?" he said.

"Okay," she smiled.

In a few minutes she slipped away quietly. But at the end of the street Mark caught up with her and took her arm.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked protectively.

"Home," she sighed. She stopped and regarded him. "I'm sorry if I seem cold. I can't be warm."

He walked with her, his hands in his pockets, and looked at the ground. "You make me feel responsible. Is this really the first and last time?"

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Look," he spun her around, "you're not giving it a chance. It takes time to get used to the idea."

She smiled sadly. "You've already got Beth. You don't need me, Mark."

He looked down again and did not answer. They walked quietly to her subway.

"Look," he said with his steady glance, "I want to see you again. Beth is not the only woman in my life. I'm free as a bird. I want to see you again."

Again she smiled sadly and shook her head. "I'm very grateful, Mark, but there are some things I just can't feel. Please let's just be friends—as we were."

He held her shoulder and would not let her turn, regarding her firmly. "Look, Anne, there's nothing wrong with you. You're every bit normal. Please help me prove it to you. Please give me time."

"Poor Mark," she smiled. "Don't feel so guilty. Give me a week or so to think."

He pinched her cheek and straightened. "That's more like it."

She watched him walk away with a bounce and whistling and wondered why she felt so blank about him. Deeply she knew that watching Beth would have been different.

* * *

The day was lingering an extra hour on the tops of trees .and Anne thought as she walked home: How right it is that it is spring. Spring was the time for moving and shaking dust out of old corners. Tomorrow she would look for a job and an apartment; tonight, she would leave home, suddenly.

It had to be a sudden move, so sudden that her parents would be too overcome with shock to try to stop her. Once she had escaped there would be time and opportunity to ease their feelings. With the coolness of thought that springs from unpleasant necessity, she laid out her plans. She would pack her belongings in light suitcases and paper bags and her treasures in a small trunk—her sketches, attempts at poetry, uncompleted books and plays, all her efforts at trying to find herself through self-expression. For three years they had collected in secret places, hidden from Dad's criticism and Mom's concern. Ever since the day Dad put his foot down:

"You cannot go to Bennington."

"But the scholarship—"

"Scholarship. Another word for charity. No."

He was difficult to speak to for he spoke in terms of an old-world culture and had no respect for American educational advantages, especially for women. "Your mother needs you here. You have enough to learn here about becoming a wife."

Now Anne unlocked the front door. Portia the cat greeted her with a meow and Anne bent to pet her. The soft fur felt good in her hands and she felt the strain in them ease slightly. No one was home. They went to movies on Sunday nights, and would be gone quite late. She hurried upstairs to pack.

For three years she had worked and saved money and to escape home she had taken night classes with the Circle Players where she had met Mark—and Beth. Her bank account held nearly a thousand now and she felt secure enough to leave. She had never had a problem finding good jobs, and apartments could be found somewhere. There remained only for her to take her belongings. She could not wait another day. It had to be done now.

There were many things that would not fit in bags— her books and childhood keepsakes. But they would be safe until she could come back for them. She would take the essential things. The rest if need be she could replenish from scratch. But she had to leave now—secretly, or she would be stopped. Particularly after having been out all night. She could never explain why to them so that they would understand.

When everything was packed she brought the bag down and called a cab that would drive into the city. Then she began to write a note: "Dear folks, I guess I've run away from home." She paused. It sounded childish. How could she explain about Beth or Mark, about not wanting to marry and have children? She could not even reason out her revulsion at the parades of young men to whom she had been subjected at Saturday night gatherings. All these things seemed such strange motives for leaving home, for wanting to be left alone to face a world full of no other places to hide.

She tore up the note. It would be better to call them and assure them by telephone that she was safe and well and then to arrange a meeting with them in some public place where she could try to explain to them that she had grown up.

Her cab arrived and with the help of the driver they loaded it with her things. Only Portia remained to meow goodbye. Anne paused, cursing mildly under her breath, and took the cat in her arms. "Come along, I can't leave you," she said.

Three weeks had passed and the decorating was nearly done. Anne and Portia found themselves alone, sitting by the telephone with its unlisted number, waiting for it to ring. She had found a perfect place—a year's sublet with adequate furniture, and convenient to The Florentin and the Players. Now she was ready for guests, but no one knew where she lived or how to contact her. Whom should she call first?

She thought of Beth and then rejected the idea with great effort. There was Mark—but seeing him might be too great a strain just now. What a pity they could not just be friends.

It was not that she had felt revulsion, not even fear— just a nothing feeling that broke all illusions and put it blankly to her that somehow she must be different, immune to all men, even Mark.

She decided not to sit and brood about this and picked up her white telephone. She would call Jacques; he was safe, possibly even gay. She wondered whether he knew women who were and if they were not all hideous-looking perverts.

"Hi, stranger," she heard him say, "where have you been? Your folks have been hounding me."

"I'm sorry," Anne said. "Want to come see my new place?"

"Anytime," he said. "I'm free tonight so better hurry."

"All right, tonight." Anne laughed.

"The address please, and the telephone number.”

Anne hesitated. "You won't give it out—"

"Hell, no," he said.

She paused for another moment, then laughed at herself. She couldn't go on being a recluse, not when she wanted her telephone to ring so badly. She gave him the number and the address and told him to give her an hour to get things tidy.

The apartment grew real and each ashtray took on new purpose. Anne felt that the dream had passed and that she was alive, in a different world full of new things to do and think, free from parents and children's games. She gained new courage; she would call Beth.

She dialed her number then waited, barely able to speak from the excitement that welled in her. Then Beth's voice, unaltered by the telephone, forced her to reply. "Beth? Hi."

"Well, hi," Beth said. "We've missed you. Your Dad's been frantic."

"I moved away from home," Anne said. "Want to come up and see my new apartment?"

"Sure." Beth turned away from the receiver and said, "Hey, Mark—it's Anne."

Anne's heart sank. So now Mark would know where she lived, too. She had hoped Beth was alone.

"When do you want us over?" Beth said.

"Tomorrow night?" Anne stammered. At least Beth would be with him. He would be easier to handle. And it was better if she did not see Beth alone. She knew somehow that it would be better.

"Okay, around eight, but only for an hour," Beth laughed.

Anne gave her the address and then too soon the conversation was over and the telephone receiver was down again, silent.

Anne remembered Jacques and began putting away paint cans and underwear for his arrival, patting Portia as she went back and forth. She called the corner grocery and ordered beer and snacks. Then she sat down and waited.

Jacques did not live very far away and he arrived soon, rang the doorbell eight times in rhythm and leaped two steps at a time up the five flights to where she stood in the hallway waiting.

"Annie," he embraced her playfully, "so what are you doing living in the Village?"

She gave a Sphinx smile and led him in, displaying her interior decoration. She had rearranged and spread the furniture with new cloth so that it had lost its middle-class look and her sketches hung on the walls reflected the sublet's new tenant.

"What you can do with nothing," he whistled.

"Beer or what?" she asked, efficiently going to the refrigerator.

"The 'or what,' " he said. She poured scotch in a kitchen glass for him and then came back to sit on the day couch.

"Boy, what a location," he said, "straight across from The Oval."

"The Oval?" Anne was puzzled. "What's so special about it?"

Jacques flipped. "Don't you notice?" It was amusing to watch him. He took pride in being effeminate and the whole cast was used to it.

"No, seriously," Anne said. "Is that a queer place too?"

"For butches," he nodded. "Strictly rough trade." He sat back and looked at her. "You've changed. What's happened to you? Why the sudden move?"

Anne paused for a moment, fingering her beer can, then looked directly at him. "Can I be frank with you?"

He nodded, returning her glance and leaned forward.

"I had to move," she continued, "because I think— somehow I know—that I'm queer." She looked at him and waited. He paused for a moment then laughed heartily.

"Welcome to the club."

Now they both laughed, Anne embarrassedly, but relieved. She sat nearer to him and said, "Tell me more about the Oval. Do girls really go there?"

"Mostly drag," he nodded.

"Drag?" she had often wanted to ask what he meant by that. The rest of the cast seemed to know.

"With men's clothes on. You know—tough," he said.

Anne smiled. "Now I know another word."

They both felt that they were friends and Jacques spoke more freely of himself. He was in love with a boy named Gene who would have nothing to do with him. Jacques chased him from one bar to the next and made good friends along the way. Then he spoke of other things, news of- the cast and how Anne had been missed at rehearsals and how her replacement was just a dog. And then there was a long silence again and Anne spoke slowly. "Do you know of better places than the Oval?"

He shook his head. "I'm the wrong one to ask—brave the joint some night and ask one of the waitresses."

"Thanks," she said, "I guess I'll work up the courage one of these days."

When he was gone she looked out of her window for a while, toward the Oval, trying to make out in the dark whether the figures entering were men or women.

* * *

"Hi, there!" Beth came first up the stairs and took both Anne's hands and looked at her. "You look wonderful." Mark, coming behind her, looked approvingly up and down and said, "What's your tonic?"

"Freedom," Anne said. "Come on in." Indeed, she felt free. Her talk with Jacques the day before had given her new assurance and she had prepared for their visit with great calm—a new sensation for her; she was usually paralyzed with expectation.

"This is a wonderful place, Anne," Beth said. She seemed more excited than usual—Anne wondered if Mark had told her about them. She was making a great effort to be friends.

"Just a sublet," Anne said, then took their coats.

"Only a block from the theater," Mark noticed. "It's tailor made. Gosh, Anne, I hope you're coming back."

"No," she said, "I don't want to act anymore."

"Hey, that's a shame." Beth went to her, took her hands again and squeezed them tightly. "You've got real talent."

"I'm sorry," Anne said. She avoided looking at Beth's face. "Can I pour you drinks?"

They nodded and went to sit on the day couch, but on opposite sides instead of closely. Anne felt Beth knew about Mark. She behaved as if she knew and had decided to leave Mark for her—as if Anne were in greater need of him. How awful, Anne thought, I don't want him. How can I tell her this? And how can I convince Mark?

She brought their drinks and they chatted and Beth laughed more than usual. Her composure was tarnished at the edges, Anne thought. She also drank four martinis within the allotted hour of their stay and when she got up to straighten her skirt and say "Well, let's go," she was wobbling slightly.

"Come back soon." Impulsively Anne took her hands and looked deeply into her eyes. Beth looked away and said, "Thanks."

Mark brought their coats and there was nothing more for Anne to say except the usual goodbyes. Mark gave her a meaningful glance as they left.

Now the door was shut and Anne was alone and she felt a dreadful tearing in her stomach and she knew the reaction had finally come. Beth still attracted her, despite Mark and the talk with Jacques, and even despite Beth.

There could be no relief. She would lie in bed all night with her eyes fixed on the ceiling, picturing Beth, in the way she had dreamed in adolescence, of arms and thighs locking in long embraces. There could be no relief.

The phone's ringing startled her from her reverie. She knew it was Mark.

"It's late to call, Mark," she said.

"When can I see you?" he insisted.

"I don't want to hurt Beth," she said.

"Beth and I are through," he said emphatically.

"I don't want you, Mark," she sighed.

"I want to see you," he said. "Be right over."

Before she could answer him he had hung up, and in a matter of minutes he was in the apartment. She tried to explain, though she knew it was futile.

"Look, just because you satisfy me doesn't mean you satisfy me." This was a riddle to him. "Mark, when a man craves mushrooms and you fill him up with steak until he can't eat another bite, he might still crave mushrooms."

He laughed. "I'll be glad to serve your steak with mushrooms anytime." And then he grew more serious and held her tightly so that her arms felt bruised. "Anne, I can do anything and everything a Lesbian can—and better."